


Storm, Blow Me From Here

by Talullah



Series: Westernesse [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23496598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Ancalimë does not make her dance teacher's life easy, but Zamîn may have something to teach them both.
Series: Westernesse [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/296957
Kudos: 4
Collections: Legendarium Ladies April 2020





	Storm, Blow Me From Here

**Author's Note:**

> [Legendarium Ladies April - April 3rd](https://legendariumladiesapril.tumblr.com/post/614476056893718528/legendarium-ladies-april-prompts-for-april-03).  
>  **General Prompt: Women at their Jobs**  
>  **Picture Prompt: Blue Ballerinas, by[Zinaida Serebriakova](https://www.wikiart.org/en/zinaida-serebriakova/blue-ballerinas-1922)**  
>   
>  **Poetry Prompt: Woman Work by Maya Angelou**  
>  _I’ve got the children to tend  
>  The clothes to mend  
> The floor to mop  
> The food to shop  
> Then the chicken to fry  
> The baby to dry  
> I got company to feed  
> The garden to weed  
> I’ve got shirts to press  
> The tots to dress  
> The cane to be cut  
> I gotta clean up this hut  
> Then see about the sick  
> And the cotton to pick._
> 
> _Shine on me, sunshine  
>  Rain on me, rain  
> Fall softly, dewdrops  
> And cool my brow again._
> 
> _Storm, blow me from here  
>  With your fiercest wind  
> Let me float across the sky  
> ‘Til I can rest again._
> 
> _Fall gently, snowflakes  
>  Cover me with white  
> Cold icy kisses and  
> Let me rest tonight._
> 
> _Sun, rain, curving sky  
>  Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone  
> Star shine, moon glow  
> You’re all that I can call my own._
> 
> The title is a verse of this poem and the song at the end is an excerpt.

**Armenelos, 885 S.A.**

Always had a temper, that child, hard and quick to anger, tongue sharp as gorse pricks, eyes darting flames at the slightest sign of teasing. But beautiful as the sun, and with a soft heart for those she loved. Zamîn watches, containing her laughter, as Ancalimë remonstrates with the poor dance teacher, who, not accustomed to such vivid frankness and intimidated by the king’s daughter, limits herself to babbling excuses.

Such a pretty thing, the teacher is, lithe and elegant, in her gauzy blue dress, her movements and her accent, delicate and polished. Mightily improper that dress they would say, back in Emerië, but if the girl’s job is to teach dance moves, one ought to be able to see what she is doing with her legs. Ancalimë wears a similar dress, the blue matching her eyes exactly; she, at twelve years, is already more beautiful old than many of those painted ladies of the court. But next to her dance teacher, she presents a complete contrast - whereas Aglaril glides, Ancalimë stomps, when Aglaril twirls, Ancalimë waves her arms in command. Much as Erendis may despise the thought, that child was made to command and Zamîn dares to dream that, one day, she will be a queen. The queen.

Zamîn watches for a little while longer, basking in the mid-afternoon sun filtering through the rim of bead-trees along the edge of the patio. It is pleasant here. She rubs a minty ointment over her knuckles, gnarly as a sickened walnut tree, admitting to herself that it’s not too bad. Ancalimë made a point of getting her this gift, among others, and Tar-Aldarion indulged. Zamîn is here, at the court, a shepherdess being pampered as a fine and noble lady, because the girl made a fuss about bringing her along when her father sent for her. Maybe it was to irritate her father, maybe to rest her mother’s spirit, or maybe because she was sat in Zamîn’s lap for most of her life and needs some comfort, after being unceremoniously ripped away from the only home she remembers.

Zamîn is grateful that the little princess thought of her old servant. But just as she was able to slap Ancalimë in the rear when she stole cream, at four years old, she is able to teach her a lesson now that she is twelve and too sure of herself. Reaching for the lovely stick with the engraved ivory knob, another gift, Zamîn rises to her feet and slowly approaches the pair of dancers, waiting for Ancalimë to do another spin and for Aglaril to, again, timidly correct her. After a few moments, both stop and look at her.

“Zamîn, are you well?”

Zamîn smiles and caresses Ancalimë’s cheek. “I am well, my darling, but I will leave you two to your dancing. Let me just say something to your teacher, if you don’t mind.”

Ancalimë raises an eyebrow, but then nods. “As you wish.”

“Aglaril, beautiful girl, your dancing is a wonder to this poor, ignorant woman’s eyes.”

“Thank you, mam,” the girl says, with a quick curtsy.

From what little she knows of Aglaril, Zamîn suspects that she would be equally courteous to her, even if she was not the king’s daughter favourite servant. 

“Let me tell you one thing, though, my dear, if you don’t mind.”

Aglaril nods, showing her deference for Zamîn’s age.

“When I was a little girl, maybe six or seven, my father sent me out with the sheep alone, for the first time. They were almost my size, and smelly, and they only did what they wanted. I had gone with him before a few times and I thought I was ready to be a good shepherdess, but I found that it was a big task. I was scared of those sheep and they knew I was scared of them. What a terrible day I had! They spread all over and grazed where they shouldn’t, a couple got lost with their lambs and, by sundown, I was bawling, hoarse from crying out to them, and nowhere near from being ready to return home. My father and my brother had to go out and help me mend the mess.”

Zamîn looks into Aglaril’s eyes, pleased to see that she has her attention. 

“Tending to sheep is very different from teaching the king’s daughter to dance, but you are a smart girl and I see from your face that you know where I’m getting at. You are a lovely dancer, but you are not being a teacher yet. Ancalimë needs you to teach her.”

Aglaril lowers her eyes to the ground, but not before Zamîn sees the glint of a tear.

She runs her hand over Ancalimë’s beautiful, satiny, blond curls and bends to speak in her ear. “I know you wish you were in Emerië, but you’re not. That poor girl is kind and patient. Make a friend out of her. You will need every friend you can get. And for goodness sake, let her teach you something, you’re not running after sheep here!”

Ancalimë sharply turns her head to look up at Zamîn but before she can reply, Zamîn winks, kisses her forehead and leaves.  
~~~~

Much later in the day, Zamîn goes to Ancalimë’s room, to help her change for the night. As she enters, Ancalimë turns on herself, in an almost perfect pirouette. 

“Ah, I see,” Zamîn says.

Ancalimë runs to her and holds her by the waist. “I’m sorry I was crossed at you.”

“And Aglaril?”

“She nags about every littlest detail...”

“She wants you to be good.”

“I know. And I do admit she tries to be very nice about her nagging.”

“Yes,” Zamîn says. “She’s a polite girl and she seems to be kind. I would like to see that you have made some friends besides your dog before I leave.”

Ancalimë draws back and pouts. “You’re not going away yet.”

“No, dear child, I’m not,” Zamîn says, starting to unbutton Ancalimë’s dress. “But you do remember what we promised - that once you were settled, I could go back home. I miss Emerië as much as you do.”

“But you can return…” Ancalimë says, lifting her arms so that Zamîn could slip her out of her dress.

“So will you, someday. For now you must stay here. And love your father. He’s not a bad man, despite…”

Ancalimë clenches her hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You can love them both, child. Life will be hard on you if you love them both, but it will be harder if you close your heart to him. And deep down, your mother knows this and will not begrudge you her love either.”

“Oh, Zamîn…” Ancalimë holds her old friend by the waist again, sighing so deeply that, for one moment, Zamîn thinks she is sobbing.

Zamîn knows that she is but an old country woman, a shepherdess and a shepherd’s wife, mother of shepherds, a cook, a spinner and weaver of wool, a maker of cheese, a servant of Erendis, but she feels immense, full of love for this child, for the long years that she has lived and for the few years that are left to her. She likes Armenelos and the comforts that it holds for her, and she does not want to abandon Ancalimë, but all children must grow and she belongs in Emerië, longs for it, dreams of it.

As she brushes Ancalimë’s hair, sets out her clothes, washes her feet, takes her to be, she hums beneath her breath an old worksong, a simple shepherdess melody.

Shine on me, sunshine  
Rain on me, rain  
Fall softly, dewdrops  
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here  
With your fiercest wind  
Let me float across the sky  
‘Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes  
Cover me with white  
Cold icy kisses and  
Let me rest tonight.

Ancalimë is almost asleep, her eyes are closed, her breath is stilling, and still Zamîn sings in her soft, girlish voice, a voice that does not belong to her wizened face and her whitered body. In the last verses, when she thinks that Ancalimë is already asleep, the child sighs, and whispers, more than sings, the last stanza.

Sun, rain, curving sky  
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone  
Star shine, moon glow  
You’re all that I can call my own.

Finis  
Abril 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Aglaril's name was taken from [Real Elvish](https://realelvish.net/names/adunaic/female/).


End file.
